


Just a Few Kilos More

by groovyhedgehog (GroovyHedgehog)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GroovyHedgehog/pseuds/groovyhedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's diet is more of an eating disorder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Few Kilos More

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Lots of headcanon. Mycroft angst.

_“I see you have gained a few pounds since last time I saw you.”_

 _“...lost, in fact.”_

Mycroft pushed the food around in his plate, hoping to god no one noticed he hadn’t touched it since their business luncheon began. Whenever eyes trailed to his place he deflected the unwanted attention by slipping intriguing bits of intelligence he’d acquired through his surveillance. Sometimes it was rather sickening how easy it was to distract most minds from simply observing. However, it was quite beneficial—useful, for his own purposes. He preferred it that way.

“Mr. Holmes, you are a very enthusiastic man, I must say, but why don’t we enjoy the rest of our meal? You’ve barely touched yours.”

 _Damn it._ Mycroft looked up and smiled, the warm veil hiding the anxiety gripping his stomach. “You’re quite right, Mr. Stephenson. I believe I ran away with my thoughts.” His eyes glanced downward. Duck, vegetables, potatoes. This was… doable. He skewed a carrot on the end of his fork and slowly picked off of it, remarking on the quality of food and offering a passing compliment to the chef. Fortunately, the other men at the table continued their conversation, which, now that business was dealt with, quickly descended into personal inquiries and sports-talk.

Later that evening, Mycroft stepped out into the overcast London autumn. Rain clouds, as usual, hung low and dreary over the city and a thick fog laced the streets. The misty could stung deeper than usual and Mycroft shivered, pulling his coat around his body. He fumbled with his umbrella.

“Sir, you don’t look so well,” Anthea pointed out in a rare moment of blatant observation. “Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m quite all right, thank you,” Mycroft murmured as he triumphed over the umbrella and it sprang open. He held it over his head, but his arm was tired, and he was suddenly glad to have a limo at his disposal. The pangs in his stomach had long given way to an odd sort of emptiness—a lightness of the mind and body and a strange, aching in his head. Anthea arched a perfectly trimmed eyebrow that cleared said, _you are not ‘quite all right, thank you,’ and you are lying to me._ She said nothing, however, and Mycroft was grateful for her discretion. That was why she was his assistant and no one else. His thin lips curled into a smile. “I do hope you enjoy your weekend.”

“Well, you should also enjoy yours, sir.” She cast him one, last calculating look before turning on her heels and hailing the closest cab.

For a long moment, Mycroft stood alone on the sidewalk, the sound of rain smacking against the black canvas of his umbrella. Drops poured off around him, pattering against the concrete and meeting with a pool of water. He just barely glimpsed his own reflection, speckled by the constant raindrops. His eyes caught his own and he saw the shiners, prominent and dark, and this ugly vision stared back. Blanching, he looked away, the pangs in his stomach suddenly returning with a sickening quiver.

 _“How’s the diet going?”_

 _“Well, thank you.”_

Everything felt sore when he came to. Mycroft groaned, blinking himself conscious, and rolled over to his back to stare at the ceiling. He barely remembered returning to his apartment and hanging his umbrella up before the world swam and darkness pressed in on his mind like a plague. Even now, his mind barely registered his surroundings. Everything seemed fuzzy and he swore the air looked electrified. He felt a strange tingling in his body, like it was trying to remember how to feel.

Eventually, he dragged himself off the ground and brewed himself a cup of tea, plain, no calories, and sipped it as he sat in his chair and watched the rain fall out his window. He’d have a cup of broth in an hour, just enough to keep his body from shutting down completely. He had five pounds to lose before next Friday, when he was sure to see Sherlock, and there needed to be at least a bit of progress to be certain of. It was a bit stupid, he knew, but he hoped that perhaps if Sherlock saw the weight loss there might be a little less venom in his brother’s greeting. Just a little.

So he sipped his tea and decided to call Lestrade once the weather melted into something warmer, something a bit more forgiving. A brisk stroll down the streets of London was exactly what he needed.


End file.
